SONGFIC Avalanche
by The Original G.I.N.G.A
Summary: Jean Havoc isn't the only member of the Amestris military to have a past that haunts him. The story is set to the song 'Avalanche IV' by JeanLouis Murat, which is a Frenchlanguage cover of the original song 'Avalanche' by Leonard Cohen.


**_Author's Notes: This is a story I wrote about Jean Havoc of FMA. I love Jean, and ALL OF YOU SHOULD TOO!!! I must admit he's the character I write most, but I do give poor Breda some much needed attention, too. Not in this story, though! This story revolves around the past I cooked up for him, I'm sure it goes against manga canon and whatnot, but I like it anyway. ; I suppose you could call it 'AU'... Anyway, this is the story of Jean and one of his medals... The song used throughout is 'Avalanche IV' by Jean-Louis Murat. It's a translation/cover song of Leonard Cohen's 'Avalanche'. Since my Jean comes from a French background, I thought it'd be a good song to use. I translated the translation instead of using the original lyrics in contrast to the French ones. For one, they differ in some places, and for another the 'uneven' and 'awkward' feeling of the translation adds to the drama I've tried to create in the story. _**

**Avalanche  
by The Original G.I.N.G.A.**

You wonder about it, don't you? Why I don't wear all of my medals. I only have three, a bit of a disgrace considering all the years I've served in the military. I think the General has twelve or thirteen ... but that's neither here nor there. This is kinda hard for me to talk about, so try and bear with me.

The medal I don't wear is a Copper Cross; given to soldiers who are wounded in action. It was the first one I ever received, and it's one I didn't truly earn. It's a symbol of my cowardice, my selfishness, my pitiful existence.

I was sixteen, then. If you looked up 'arrogant sonofabitch' in the dictionary, you probably would've found my picture. Hell, even though I've changed a lot ... my picture should still be there.

_J'ai été pris dans l'avalanche  
__J'y ai perdu mon âme  
Quand je ne suis plus ce monstre qui te fascine  
Je vis sous l'or des collines  
Toi qui veux vaincre la douleur  
Tu dois apprendre à me servir_

_(I was devoured by an avalanche  
__Losing what I called my soul  
__I am not the monster you now behold  
I sleep below the hills of gold  
If you wish to vanquish your pain  
You must learn to serve me)_

My first deployment into combat was in April of 1909. It was in the province of Xing, we're at odds with them now, but at that time we were on speaking terms. They asked for our assistance in containing an uprise of citizens along the Xesxes Road. Xesxes Road used to be a trade route that wound through the desert, but it fell into disrepair when the mines around there stopped producing good material. A few of the mining towns are still occupied, but a lot of them have been abandoned. It was in one of these ghost towns that anti-government fanatics started gathering, and when Xing's military moved in to break them up they found themselves out-gunned by lunatics.

I was there ... wow, two days. I'd only been there two fucking days. I had seventeen kills; more than anyone else in my squadron. They started calling me Bullseye Boy, and I took to the name like snot on suede. I never felt guilty after I killed someone. They were trying to kill me, so I shot them before they could shoot back. It's what I was trained to do, after all. Never once did I hesitate to pull the trigger.

Except ... the one time when pulling the trigger would've done the most good.

_Le hasard t'a conduit vers moi  
Pauvre chercheur d'or  
Mais ce monstre que tu as recueilli  
Ignore la faim ignore le froid  
Il ne recherche pas ta compagnie  
Même ici au cœur au cœur du monde_

_(You found me by accident  
__Pitiful gold digger  
__But this monster you've come upon  
__Does not acknowladge hunger or the cold  
I never asked for your company  
Here at the center, the heart of all the world)_

"Sh...shoot ..."

I felt like I was going to throw up.

"Sh..shoot ... me ..."

All I could do was stare.

"Please ... shoot ..."

I slowly reached for my pistol.

"...Me ..."

I pointed it at her. A poor, helpless figure pinned to the ground by fallen debris. Her limbs were twisted every which way, bones and muscle tissue jutting out everywhere. She was slowly bleeding to death; pleading with me ... her enemy ... to have mercy on her and take her life.

"P..pl..e..."

I couldn't steady my hand. "God ... how old is she?" I thought, "She can't be any older than I am ... Fuck ... How do I ... ?"

"Sh..shoot ..."

I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, the recoil shuddered up my arm.

" ... Me ..."

I opened my eyes and saw that she was still alive. Still in pain. I had missed. Bullseye Boy couldn't even bean a target that was less than ten feet away. I pointed my pistol at her once again ... and then ...

I turned around and ran.

_Si je suis sur un piédestal  
Je le gravis seul  
Tes lois ne m'obligent à rien  
Ni fessée ni prière  
Je suis moi-même le piédestal  
Par cette marque hideuse qui te fascine_

_(If I am on a pedestal  
__I climbed there on my own  
__Your laws have no meaning to me  
Be it for violence or prayer  
__I, myself, am the pedestal  
__For the deformity you cannot ignore)_

I ran as far away from there as fast as I possibly could. When I finally stopped, I discovered that I'd started crying at some point. I couldn't keep the tears from spilling out of my eyes. I was sobbing so hard that I made myself sick

"Je veux aller ... à ... maison ... Dieu ... vous plais ... je veux aller ..."

There are no words to describe exactly how I felt. Terror, horror, disgust, guilt ... none of those even come close. I could only think of one thing and one thing only:

"PLEASE, GOD!!!! I WANT TO GO HOME!!!"

I pointed my gun again, I had no trouble aiming this time. I didn't hesitate to pull the trigger, I made a clean shot through my boot and in to my left foot. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, the pain was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again, and again ... until the chamber was empty. I'd hit myself two more times, once in my right foot and once in my right shin. I have no idea how I missed my own damn feet, but my shaking hands and near constant vomiting probably had something to do with it.

_Tu ne pourras vaincre la douleur  
Sans être généreuse  
Ces miettes que tu m'offres amour  
Ne sont que les restes de mes festins  
Ta douleur ici ne vaut rien  
Ce n'est que l'ombre l'ombre de ma blessure_

_(You cannot overcome your pain  
__With generosity alone  
__The petty crumbs of love you offer me  
Are just leftovers of the feast I once had  
__Your pain is meaningless here  
__It's merely a shade, a shadow of my wounds)_

"MEDIC!!!"

I screamed for help at the top of my lungs until someone finally found me. I was taken back to camp, treated, bandaged, and then shipped back to Central for recovery and rehab. Nobody asked how I'd gotten shot, they just assumed that I'd been ambushed by the enemy. Bullseye Boy wouldn't shoot himself on purpose.

For some reason I couldn't talk about it. At least, not on my own. I thought that if someone actually pressed the issue, I'd be able to open up. I kept hoping someone would ask me, kept hoping that I'd be guilted into telling the truth.

I just sat back and let that hope eat me alive.

_Pourtant vois comme je te désire  
Moi qui n'ai plus d'envie  
Vois comme partout je te chante  
Moi qui n'ai plus de désirs  
Tu penses m'avoir abandonné  
Mais je frémis encore quand tu soupires_

_(I have started to crave you  
__I, who carry no envy  
__I have begun to sing for you  
__I, who does not know need  
__You pretend you've abandoned me  
__Even though I quiver with each sigh you make)_

I went a little nuts after that. I spent nearly half of the year suspended without pay for all of the stupid things I let myself do. For a little while ... I made good friends with a drug I encountered while in Xing. It came from the poppy plants that grow near Xesxes Road, it's refined to a certain point and then smoked. It's supposed to make you feel relaxed, euphoric, pain-free. It was being exported like mad, so I didn't have to look too hard to find a source for it in Central, I desperately wanted to try it ... to see if it really COULD make my pain go away. I tried it, and ... I hated it. I hated the way it made me feel, I hated the way I acted when I was high, I hated myself because I kept doing it when I knew it was just making things worse. But ... it helped me run away. All of my worries, guilt, and responsibilities disappeared the first moment that acrid smoke entered my lungs.

It's a good thing the damn stuff was so expensive back then. I couldn't afford it when my meager savings dried up and my monthly cheques stopped coming. Cheap whiskey became my drug of choice; I also started smoking tobacco around that time. I'd sit alone in my room for hours and hours with nothing to do except, well, roll one cigarette after another. I got quite good at it as I recall, I'd still roll them today if I weren't so lazy.

_Ne mets pas ces haillons pour moi  
Je sais que tu es riche  
Ne m'aime pas aussi férocement  
Si tu ne sais plus ce qu'est l'amour  
A toi de jouer allez viens  
Regarde j'ai revêtu ta chair_

_(Don't dress in rags for me  
__I know that you're rich  
__Your infatuation with me is less savage now  
__You're wondering if it was even love at all  
__Still you're content to play with me  
__Looking on as I wear your flesh)_

When I received a twelve week suspension for being AWOL - that stands for "Away With-Out Leave" - for going on a three-day drinking binge to 'celebrate' the end of Aught Nine ... I sat myself down and did some serious thinking. I was a sergeant then, the highest rank in the lowest class of the military. When shit hit the fan I was guaranteed a front row seat right in the thick of it. If I wanted to avoid the battlefield ... I'd have to at least get myself promoted to Second Lieutenant.

Plenty of empty desks for lieutenants, you see. They save the desk jobs alotted to lower officers for braniacs. If I could just climb one more rung of the ladder I wouldn't be deployed at the drop of a hat.

My chance came in May of 1910. I (literally) came out of the gate with guns blazing. I killed as many people as I could, put myself in harm's way in order to protect my squadron, designed a crude bomb that was capable of knocking tanks right off their treads. I was "in the shit" – as the saying goes - for ten straight days ... and when I came out of it, I was Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc.

Want to know something funny? The Mayday Massacre was a turning point in my career, but I don't remember much about it. I have flashes of events that took place during that time, a few hazy recollections of my actions and words, but ... for the most part ... it doesn't exist to me. From what I've been told ... I acted like a man possessed.

That sounds about right.

So ... that's that. Why I don't wear that cross and why I never will. I'll keep acting like a man possessed until I'm sure I'll never face that sort of horror again. That's what drew me to Roy, he has the same goal. Except, he aspires to control it all while I'd be perfectly content working quietly behind the scenes. I'm just a lazy-ass Frenchman, after all. The military'd fall apart with ME at the helm.

This is going to sound kinda stupid, but ... Do you still love me, Al?

-FIN-

**_Yeah yeah, I know, surprising ending right? XD As my profile states, I'm a hopeless Jean/Al shipper. Please review! Even if you don't have nice things to say, I'd like to hear about it y'know?_**


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